Diary: Quincey P Morris
by willshakespeare-immortalbard
Summary: "Dracula" as told through the eyes, via the personal diary, of Quincey Morris. Rated T for vampire violence, dark material and concepts, such as drug use, and possible triggers.


**A/N—Disclaimer: I do not own **_**Dracula**_**. It belongs entirely to Bram Stoker, his estate, and/ or whoever happens to own the rights. **

** Also, many thanks to the Gutenberg edition of **_**Dracula**_**, which I used as my reference and as my textual guide: all italicized quotations (which will also be marked via footnotes) are from that edition. **

** Notes: My first non-school reading of the year was **_**Dracula**_**, something which—as an English major—I felt obliged to read at some point. **_**I loved it**_**. So, of course, the muse kicked in, and put forward this idea. Please bear with me for a few chapters as I feel out the characters and such. **

** Summary: **_**Dracula**_** rewritten through the eyes of Quincey Morris, via his own personal journal. Rated T for vampire violence, dark scenarios, and possible friendship. All relationships portrayed are either M/F romantic relationships or friendships—no slash. And, of course, spoilers are contained. **

** As always, please read and review! Danke! ~Will **

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**Diary: Quincey P. Morris **

_25 May_—I'm not one (never have been) for diaries, journals, and all the what-not of self expression, which will serve for explanation as to why there is no written record, of my doing—I cannot account for Jack or Arthur—of my college days. Neither are there accounts of my adventure days, my wooing days, my grieving days, or any of the other days of my life. I don't care for it. But others of my acquaintance and friendship do—quite diligently!—and I must either sit in dreary silence while Jack scribbles notes for his phonograph at home (_mem_. If I can ever get him to show it to me, I shall have to, of course), or write myself. I have, apparently, chosen the latter; I shall not hold myself accountable for the frequency or clarity of my writing, particularly as, unlike Jack, I tend to be at my most effusive when under just a smidgeon of the alcoholic influence…such as tonight. But to grander things!

The lovely little lady, Miss Lucy, turned me down the other day. Not that I blame her even a bit: she is the sweetest, kindest lass ever to turn a fellow down, and I can only hope that she treated Jack with the same kindness she did me. (Jack is fond of quipping that great minds think alike, and in some ways that apparently holds true; we both proposed to her). After giving us two unhappy fellows some time to cool off and cherish our sweet grievances, I felt that really we ought to congratulate our happy, happy Arthur—which we did tonight.

"This is like old tradition, isn't it?" Art(hur) asked me once he had arrived and settled into the drinks. "You and me…"

"And Jack Seward!" I reminded him, but he cut me off.

"Not yet, not yet! Jack Seward is, apparently, as attached to tradition as we are and is determined to be as fashionably late as a man who runs a lunatic asylum can be."

That was tradition—all through our acquaintance, every bar or pub meeting, every campfire out in the wilderness…really, truly, every possible social situation possible: Jack (John! There should be some official record of his Christian name, I suppose) Seward had to be late, and to arrive with a plethora of excuses, such as—

"I am so sorry! I was just leaving—just putting the note on my door for the attendant, I swear!—and one of my patients caused the most infernal ruckus. You see"—such as that, except they were more suited to the situation of a medical student; classes running late, professors wanting to talk, forgetting because of studying for an exam…Jack Seward knows how to make an excuse.

"Forget the excuses, Jack," Art laughed, shoving a drink at him. "You love tradition as much as we do; it had to be done."

Jack smiled, but refused the drink. "No, thank you. I…I'm not much in the mood for a drink tonight."

"But of course you are!" I shouted, eager to get things rolling along (these Englishmen love incessant chatter; after several years in a university dormitory with Jack, I can attest to it with no fear of perjury). "We're here to…how did I put it?..."_mingle our weeps over the wine cup_" [1], Jack. You must participate."

I succeeded in pressing the glass upon him with only one condition on his side: I was to pour him one tiny glass and one only. He didn't look good at all. Thinking on it now, later, perhaps I ought to have drunk a little less before meeting up with old school friends. It never does to forget old schoolmates' histories.

*For the sake of blabberin', since I'm looking to be here for a while longer, perhaps a couple of those histories wouldn't hurt. Art, Jack, and I all met at University—which one don't matter—through the course of our first year. Art and I met through classes; he was pursuing a liberal arts degree simply to have one, I was wasting my time twiddling my thumbs because I was young and I could. Jack I met when we became roommates; my first roommate, a crazy fellow named Renfield, started spouting nonsense about vampires and life and blood and such, and the school booted him: Jack, a pre-med student with a fascination with all things insane, was the replacement. I still remember his first words to me: "It's such a shame that the school expelled Renfield. It would have been interesting to watch and see what was causing it all. But you can't cry over spilt chloral." (Technically, you can, but Jack has never been that much of a literalist).*

Well, long story short Art, Jack, and I talked over the campfire and several cups of drink about little Miss Lucy. We congratulated Art, Jack and I; but I'm not wholly over this myself, and I'll spare myself the painful relation of something I've already done once this evening.

At long last Jack, who agreed to camp under the stars for one night, has put away his notebook. For someone who detests writing things out, he took his own sweet time. My hand is cramping…his must be swollen past recall.

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[1] _Dracula_, chapter V: "_Letter, Quincey P. Morris to Hon. Arthur Holmwood_" (Gutenberg edition)


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